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stereksecretsanta · 5 years ago

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Merry Christmas, @softderekhale!

I hope this fulfills all your holiday hopes and dreams!

Read on AO3

*****

I'll Be Home For Christmas (you can count on me)

“So, I live here now.”

Stiles drops his duffel bag in the entryway, kicking off his boots and letting the cold wind pull the door closed behind him. His voice is thick with false cheer, and Derek can smell the distress rolling off him, completely at odds with the nearly manic beaming of his face.

Derek sips his coffee and turns the page of his newspaper. He wants to say it’s too early for this, but it’s nearly 10 am, and also he’s been looking forward to Stiles’ return for the holidays more than he’d like to admit.

“You don’t,” he points out calmly, but Stiles doesn’t even bat an eye, draping his damp coat haphazardly over the coat rack and skidding forward on his sock feet to throw an overstuffed-to-bulging backpack at the foot of the end table.

“I do now ,” Stiles informs him, flinging himself onto the couch. He sighs luxuriously, wiggling his toes and stretching his arms over his head.

Derek gives up and looks over, his gaze catching on Stiles’ wrists, bony but large from an unexpected late growth spurt that hit when he turned twenty. Stiles’ forearms are heavy with dark hair, as thick as Derek’s own in spite of Stiles’ very human status, and Derek wants to touch them, wants to wrap his fingers around them and see how warm they are.

“God bless your expensive taste in furniture, Derek, really,” Stiles sighs out. “I thought my back would never be the same after the dorm couches, but this baby’s gonna heal what ails me.” He pats the couch vigorously and stretches again. Derek averts his eyes as Stiles groans out in pleasure, flopping over onto his stomach and burying his face in a throw pillow.

There’s a holiday gift market downtown this weekend; they’re shutting all the streets. It’d be a good place to pick up some gifts for the pack, Derek thinks, checking the time on his phone, but it doesn’t open for another hour.

Derek turns back to his paper, because what else is he supposed to do?

---

scarfwaif: i saw stiles’ jeep parked at your apt when i drove by this afternoon derek - is he back in town?

Sourwolf: Yes. He got in this morning.

scarfwaif: did he stop by to say hi?

Sourwolf : is typing

Sourwolf: No. He walked in my door and announced that he lives here now.

scarfwaif: :laughing_face: :laughing_face: :laughing_face:

scarfwaif: but why, derek?

Sourwolf: I have no idea

scarfwaif: oh come on, he must’ve said something

Sourwolf: You know what Stiles is like when he doesn’t want to talk about something.

scarfwaif: oof, yeah. avoidance champion of the year, 2013-2019 running

Sourwolf: Exactly.

scarfwaif: well, it’s nice for you to have the company. you hole up in there too much anyway. tell stiles to take you out for regular walks. :laughing_face:

Derek tosses the phone aside and goes back to folding the laundry spread out on his bed. He should’ve changed the names back long ago, but he hasn’t had the heart to correct them, not when every incoming text reminds him of Stiles drunk and warm against his side, stealing Derek’s phone and changing all the contacts to increasingly ridiculous monikers while he presses himself into Derek’s arms.

Derek sighs to himself, free to indulge in a moment of self-pity while he’s alone in his room. It’s not that he doesn’t want Stiles here; that’s never been the case. And, as Isaac points out, it’s nice to have someone just… around. Now that the pack’s grown up and gone to college or started full-time jobs, he doesn’t see them as much, even the ones who live nearby. It’s healthy, Derek thinks, and he himself does get social interaction, contrary to popular belief. He volunteers at the library twenty hours a week, and makes a point to see each member of his pack at least once every fortnight, whether for lunch or at their regular monthly pack dinners or just to hang out and watch a game or whatever. But… it’s not the same as having someone in his space, it’s not like the restlessly reassuring noises Stiles makes thumping around down in the kitchen while Derek matches his socks.

Still. Derek frowns. It’s the holidays. Stiles is supposed to be with his dad - that’s how he always does the holidays. It’d be selfish for Derek to let Stiles spend the time with him, even if the thought of his smile in the glow of Yule tree lights makes Derek’s cheeks warm.

It’s not right; Stiles should be with his family. Derek’s just got to figure out how to fix whatever it is that’s going on.

“There!” Stiles slides the wrapped box down the length of the table, his grin spread broad across his face. “That’s all seventeen.”

Derek stares. The wrapping is perfect - the corners crisp, the tape minimal, the paper tight. The pattern of the paper even lines up on the bottom.

“How…” he starts incredulously, and Stiles laughs.

“My mom was a gift-wrap perfectionist. I used to help her when I was a kid,” he says, and spins the tape dispenser around his finger in a sharp circle, holding it out like a pistol and blowing the pretend smoke off it before waggling his eyebrows at Derek. “And I’ve always had really good small-motor skills.”

Derek takes the package and turns away so that the heat in his cheeks is hopefully invisible. He’d like to know about these small-motor skills, maybe first-hand, but even more than that he’s taken by the thought of a tiny Stiles folding colored paper carefully around present-shaped boxes.

“Thanks for your help,” he says, setting the wrapped box into the large crate of other pre-wrapped presents by the door. “It usually takes me hours to do them all.”

“You do this every year?” Stiles’ voice is curious. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah.” Derek shrugs awkwardly. “I don’t really talk about it.”

“How did you get started?”

“Um,” Derek rubs a hand through his hair and reaches for his coat. “You want to come with to help drop them off?”

“Sure.” Stiles yanks his sweatshirt over his head and shoves a cookie into his mouth, holding it between his teeth as his hands fumble through his sleeves. “Where do you take them?”

“The family assistance center down on State street.” Derek grabs his keys and gloves, glancing over at Stiles. He knows better than to think that Stiles’ previous question will be forgotten, so he focuses instead on opening the door and hefting the crate full of gifts through it. “Grab the door?”

Stiles bounds out behind him, pulling the door closed and stepping forward to balance the crate while Derek locks up.

“My family’s always been well off, Stiles,” Derek says, and can’t bring himself to meet Stiles’ eyes. He knows what he grew up with, and he knows what growing up under a single parent with a government job and leftover medical debt looks like. “But my parents weren’t assholes. The family center asks for volunteers to buy gifts for needy families in town, so my folks always signed us up for the large ones, because we could afford it. Each of us kids was in charge of buying for a family, and then we’d wrap them all together and drop them off before Christmas.”

“And you still do it,” Stiles states, his expression unreadable as he steals Derek’s car keys and pops the trunk so Derek can load the gifts into his car.

“Yeah.” Derek shrugs, a bitter taste in his mouth as he situates the gifts so they won’t slide around. “I’ve still got money. The pack will only let me spend so much on them, and I don’t have any family other than Cora.”

“So you’re a good Samaritan.”

“I guess?” Derek shuts the trunk and climbs in, fishing out his keys to start the car. “It’s not like the money’s doing anyone any good just sitting in a bank account.”

Stiles fastens his seatbelt, nodding, and is uncharacteristically silent for the whole ride. Derek tries not to take it personally.

In the evening he takes Stiles with him to his weekly sports night with Boyd and Erica, shoving a worn San Jose Sharks sweatshirt at Stiles even as he pulls a blue-and-gold Warriors holiday sweater over his own unassuming black t-shirt.

Stiles looks at him like he’s grown a second head, so Derek shrugs. “Erica’s house rules,” he says. “Everyone must come properly attired.”

“Who are you,” Stiles breathes reverently, staring at the bright yellow snowflakes marching across Derek’s pecs, but he obediently pulls the proffered hoodie on, shoving up the sleeves which are a little too long, and fuck. Derek really should have thought about what it would mean to his wolfy brain to have Stiles wrapped up in something that smells so strongly of him. He pauses, takes a steadying breath while Stiles dashes around to grab his wallet and keys and phone, and is settled enough to give a bland smile when Stiles meets him at the door.

“Shall we?” he asks, and offers his elbow. Stiles snorts, his eyes dancing, but he takes it. Derek feels the heat of his palm all the way to the car.

Erica greets them both at the door, her teal and black manicure impeccable and the sounds of the hockey game loud behind her.

“Warriors, Der?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow. “It’s hockey night. You know the rules.”

“I haven’t caught the dubs game versus the Rockets yet,” he shrugs, “thought maybe we could toss it on after the Sharks are done getting their asses handed to them. Besides,” he steps aside so that Stiles comes into view, “I had to loan out my hockey shirt.”

“Batman!” Erica throws herself into Stiles’ arms. He catches her easily, laughing and twirling her around as she pounds on his back in excitement. “What are you doing here?”

Stiles sets her down, and she grabs both their wrists, pulling them into the small apartment she shares with Boyd. Derek nods at him where he sits on the couch, and Boyd tips his head at Stiles and makes a questioning face. Derek grimaces back before he’s pulled into the kitchen where Erica is shoving mugs of well-seasoned eggnog at them both.

“I’m staying with Derek now,” Stiles is saying, and Erica shoots Derek a look that he knows means they will be discussing this later.

“Oh,” Erica says, her voice cheerful and sharp. “How fun for both of you!”

“Sharks are on the powerplay,” Boyd calls from the living room, and Derek suppresses a sigh of relief at the interruption. Boyd is dependable, Boyd is astute, Boyd always was the best of his betas, Derek thinks as Erica shoos them both into the living room and onto the large sofa.

“You’ll have to tell me all about it later,” Erica warns with a smile, and Stiles shows her all his teeth.

“Of course,” he agrees, eyes flicking to the TV as he points. “Oh look, some guy did a thing with his stick!”

“So,” Erica says, turning to Derek the second Stiles is down the hall and out of earshot in his quest for the bathroom. “Spill.”

Derek spreads his hands. “Spill what? I don’t know anything.”

“Why is Stiles staying with you? I knew his fight with his dad was bad, but I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“I didn’t even know they had a fight.” Derek shrugs helplessly. “He walked into my place and dumped his stuff, said he lived there now. What was I supposed to do, tell him no?”

Boyd shoots him a sympathetic look. Derek’s feelings for Stiles are not a discussed topic, but given even the relatively low level of emotional bleed in the back bond, Boyd and Erica and Isaac have had a few years of knowing that Derek, well… that Derek feels something for Stiles, anyway. He suspects the details are generally written all over his stupid face.

“Hm.” Boyd loops an arm around Erica’s shoulders, his face thoughtful. “Must’ve been a bad one. Did the sheriff say anything to you about it at work?”

“No,” Erica wriggles until she’s comfortable tucked under Boyd’s arm. “But it was work, you know. He just mentioned that he’d talked to Stiles.” She looks pensive. “But he was in a bad mood all week, stomping around and slamming things. I figured either they’d patched it up or else Stiles wasn’t coming home - I’d never have thought he’d come back but avoid his dad.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and stares at his hands. “They’ve always been so close.” He tries not to think of his own family, gone more than ten years now, but it’s impossible. They’d always been so close, until they weren’t.

Erica slaps him on the leg, beaming as her acrylic claws stab into the meat of his thigh. “Well!” she announces cheerfully as the toilet flushes and the bathroom door opens down the hall. “I guess you’ll just have to fix it, Der!”

It’s only 10:30 that night when Stiles starts to yawn, but he must’ve gotten up at some ungodly hour in order to make it from Berkeley up to Beacon Hills as early in the day as he did, Derek figures. Also, it’s just past finals, so no doubt he’s got some sleep debt to pay down.

Sure enough, it only takes another few minutes before Stiles is rubbing at his eyes and mumbling something about sleep, my glorious mistress , before digging in his bag and emerging with a toothbrush and pajama bottoms. Derek chews his lip while Stiles brushes his teeth and changes, but by the time Stiles returns to the living room in his sock feet Derek’s mind is made up.

“Hey man, you got a pillow I can use or something?”

“You should sleep with me,” Derek says, and then immediately chokes on his tongue as Stiles’ eyes go wide. “I mean, my bed is big and the couch isn’t great for sleeping. You can just share with me.”

“Uh,” Stiles says eloquently, and Derek can feel his face burning. He looks away, pointedly casual as he flips through articles on his tablet.

“You don’t have to. Obviously. But it’s a King-size, we wouldn’t run into each other even if we tried.”

He can feel the weight of Stiles’ gaze on him, can almost hear his brain ticking over as he considers the options.

“Fine,” Stiles says after a long pause, voice resigned. “I’m fucking tired, so what the hell. I’m gonna brush my teeth and go to bed. You coming?”

“In a minute,” Derek tells him, rereading the first paragraph of the article he’s staring at for the fifth time. “I sleep on the right, so you should take the left. You don’t need to leave any lights on for me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles flaps a hand absently at Derek as he gathers his stuff and heads for the stairs. “Freaky werewolf powers, I know.” He yawns again, scratching absently at his belly and scuffing his toes against the hardwood of the apartment floor.

“Go to bed before you fall over,” Derek tells him, trying desperately and failing utterly not to picture Stiles spread out asleep in his bed, skin pale in the moonlight and limbs lax with dreams.

“Kay,” Stiles murmurs, shuffling off toward the stairs. “See you in the morning, Sourwolf.”

“Night,” Derek manages, eyes firmly on his tablet. He listens as Stiles climbs the stairs and then climbs into bed, flopping around restlessly for a long moment until he falls all at once and altogether into sleep, his breathing going even and heartbeat slowing.

Derek breathes out slowly, and stays up for a very long time before making his way to bed.

Stiles is already up when Derek wakes the next morning, and Derek is profoundly grateful because it means that he can give in to the urge to lean over and bury his face in the pillow Stiles used, inhaling the scent of Stiles mixed with his own laundry detergent in over his teeth and closing his eyes.

If he had a tail right now, it would wag, he thinks, and he’s too half-awake yet to feel the automatic embarrassment that usually accompanies any thought of his wolf’s unbridled possessive joy.

He takes another deep breath, closing his eyes and letting it wash over him and sink into his hindbrain before he forces himself to get up. He showers and dresses and heads downstairs; it’s the 23rd today, and Christmas is suddenly imminent instead of abstractly “several days” away. It’s not like he needs to prep for a holiday party or anything, but there’s still stuff to do: he needs to wrap the presents for the pack, and he’s been meaning to drag out his little fake tree, and he’s still somehow got to figure out what’s wrong between Stiles and his dad.

“Mornin’, Sleepywolf,” Stiles says cheerfully, pressing a warm cup of coffee into Derek’s hands as he clears the landing. “I was wondering when you were going to get up.”

Derek hums into his coffee which is, well, surprisingly good. “I thought all you drank in college was that hideous tea-brewed-with-coffee mixture that Isaac taught you about and energy drinks.”

Stiles looks briefly insulted. “First of all,” he tells Derek, waving a spatula at him indignantly, “I spent ten years before I moved out making coffee for my dad, so it’s not like I don’t know how.”

“Sure,” Derek interrupts, “but I’ve tasted the coffee at the sheriff’s station. I’m not convinced your dad has tastebuds at this point."

“Point,” Stiles says, pouring eggs into a pan, and Derek’s heart aches at how at home Stiles looks here in Derek’s kitchen in his sweatpants and bedhead. “But I also spent many years studying with one Lydia Martin, and I’m sure you’re familiar with her standards regarding anything she puts in her mouth.”

“Well,” Derek says, taking another drink, “there was Jackson.”

The noise Stiles makes is priceless, bending over the stove, his shoulders shaking as he laughs helplessly. “Alright , point ,” he says, waving the spatula vaguely in Derek’s direction as he snickers, “but let’s call that the exception that proves the rule.”

Stiles plates two omelets and slides them onto the wood-topped island in Derek’s kitchen. “So,” he says, settling onto a stool across from Derek, reaching blindly behind him until he snags the coffee pot and hauls it over to pour refills for both of them. “What are we doing today?”

“You use a fake tree?”

“You’ve been to my place over the holidays before, Stiles, you know this.”

“Yeah, but,” Stiles gesticulates wildly at the three-foot table tree Derek is currently fluffing into shape. “I thought it was a fluke!”

“I like my tree.” Derek lets a little of the defensiveness he’s feeling bleed into his tone, because honestly, who gave Stiles the right to show up in his house and sleep in his bed and piss all over his holiday decorations?

“Okay, Sourwolf, there’s nothing wrong with your tree ,” Stiles backpedals, and Derek suppresses a smile, “it’s just that you’re, you know. Rich. Hot. A supernatural nature being. I figured you’d be offended by the very scent of a fake tree or something.”

“Laura and I bought it our first Christmas in New York,” Derek tells him, straightening the point at the top. “Pass me that tin of ornaments?”

“Oh,” Stiles says, and his voice is soft as he grabs the ornament bucket and hands it to Derek. “Well, I think you’ve gotten your money’s worth at this point. That was what, ten years ago now?”

“Something like that,” Derek agrees, not wanting to give that sad, desperate holiday more thought than he can help. “Here, dig through and find the star.”

They pass a couple of minutes peacefully, Stiles rifling through the old popcorn tin of ornaments and providing a muted running commentary on everything from the age to the stylistic choices to the number of sequins involved in the contents. Derek wraps the lights around the tree, winding them evenly and with the confidence of long practice which allows him to finish with the end of the strand wrapped around the tippy-top of the highest branch.

“So,” he tries eventually, “what sort of holiday traditions do you and your dad have?”

“Well,” Stiles starts, distracted by a one-eyed clothespin reindeer he’s just unearthed, “my mom’s side of the family is Jewish, at least in theory, so we’d do a menorah when I was little. Dad stopped after she died because he didn’t know the prayers and can’t read Hebrew, but he always makes killer latkes.”

“Yeah?” Derek smiles at the thought of the sheriff flipping potato pancakes. It fits; from what he knows of John Stilinski, he’s always prefered reassurance and emotional expression of the tangible kind. It’s something Derek relates to, something he wants to be able to provide, both for Stiles and for his pack: a safe space, a comforting environment, care provided through concrete action. “What else?”

Stiles shrugs. “You know. The usual. We’d get a tree, decorate it. Hang stockings. I don’t think I ever actually believed in Santa, but we pretended I did so Dad had a reason to fill them.”

“Aren’t you going to miss all that if you stay here?” Derek asks, steadfastly not looking at Stiles as he fixes a wobbly angel near the top.

“Subtle like a sledgehammer, Sourwolf,” Stiles mutters, but there’s an unmistakable thread of tension beneath the teasing.

Derek sighs. “I’m just trying to help, Stiles. He’s your dad; I’m sure he wants you home for Christmas.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, he can see that the second he turns and catches the look on Stiles’ face, the sheen to his eyes. He holds out his arm and Stiles comes to him without protest, and Derek hauls him close in apology. It’s just like any other member of the pack, he tells himself; wolves are tactile and so is Stiles, and if he holds him a little closer or a little softer or a little longer than he would Boyd or Isaac, that’s between him and the tree.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles mumbles thickly into Derek’s shoulder, and Derek just nods.

“Okay,” he says, and rubs a hand briskly over Stiles’ back as he forces himself to let go, to put some space between them. “But if you change your mind…”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, rolling his eyes and reaching for another angel, “I know. Thanks, Sourwolf.”

“So Stiles is staying with you?” Scott asks, and he and Derek have been at peace with each other for years, even if they’re not really what Derek would call friends, but there’s always that edge of suspicion in Scott’s voice that makes Derek have to force his hackles down.

“Seems to be.” Derek keeps his voice bland and shovels another french fry into his mouth. He’d stopped by the Argent-Lahey-McCall household ostensibly on a fast food run, but also in the hopes of gathering more information. Stiles had been deep into an internet deep dive on the particulars of homosexuality in mated penguin pairs (which was honestly fascinating, but Derek needs what info he can get from Scott and Allison) when he left, so Derek’s got a solid couple of hours before Stiles realizes that it doesn’t take this long to get drive-thru.

“I wonder why he didn’t come here?” Scott’s voice is a little mournful, and Allison rolls her eyes.

“Because we have three adults and a nine-month-old in a two-bedroom apartment,” she says, and Derek suppresses a snicker.

“Yeah, but…” Scott starts, and Allison shakes her head.

“I know you’re his best friend, but I’m sure Derek’s couch is infinitely better than our shitty air mattress in the baby’s room.”

Derek nods into his soda, carefully not mentioning the part where Stiles hasn’t been on the couch at all except for naps and video game marathons. “Do you know what they fought about?”

Scott shakes his head, looking even more mournful. “No, I don’t know the details. I know it’s about school, but he hasn’t really said anything else. And I don’t really see the sheriff these days, even if he is dating my mom.” He picks at his burger and looks mildly defensive. “She’s been on day shifts all year so they can see each other, but I’ve been working nights at Deaton’s so that Allison and Isaac and I can all trade off taking care of baby Vicky.”

“It’s okay,” Derek tells him, pushing down the pang of disappointment. He’d known that Scott and Stiles weren’t necessarily as close as they had been since Stiles had gone away to college and Scott had stayed around, but he’d thought Stiles would still keep Scott in the loop on something as big as this. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Tell him he can always come here,” Scott declares, face firm, and Derek nods easily, refusing to acknowledge the tiny swell of pride that grows beneath his sternum at the knowledge that Stiles chose him over his long-time friend.

“I will,” Derek promises.

Allison catches him as he’s packing up to leave, shoving Stiles’ share of the curly fries into a paper bag with a burger.

“When Stiles and the sheriff have fought before, it’s usually because there’s a miscommunication,” she says, passing him a sleeping Vicky so she can open the cupboards and pull out a bag of cookies. “It’s not really that they disagree about much, but they’re both really stubborn, and if one of them takes something the other says the wrong way, it can be hard for them to figure out where it went wrong.”

Derek nods, pressing his nose against the softness of Vicky’s hair. He’s eternally grateful for Allison’s understanding of born wolves, regardless of how she came by it - having young wolves around to care for and protect is an essential part of a healthy pack, and he misses holding and playing with his little cousins as much as he misses his siblings and parents.

“You think they misunderstood each other, and now are too hurt to talk it out?”

“Yeah,” Allison sighs, packing several cookies into the bag. “They were honestly probably trying to protect each other from something, if you want my guess. Either one of them was keeping something from the other ‘for their own good’,” she makes air quotes and grimaces, “or else one of them is trying to sacrifice something for the other. They always put each other first, and it doesn’t always work out.”

Vicky stirs in Derek’s arms and he bounces her without thinking, her solid weight warm against his chest. “Yeah,” he agrees, “that does sound like them.”

Allison smiles at him, and holds out her hands. Derek reluctantly passes Vicky over and takes the bag of food she proffers instead. It’s a chilly substitute, and his disappointment must show, because Allison’s smile softens and she reaches out to grip his arm.

“You can do this, Derek. Stiles trusts you; he’ll listen to you.”

“Ha,” Derek snorts. “Sure.”

“You matter to him, Der,” she says, “or else he wouldn’t be at your apartment right now, waiting for you to come home.” Her grip on his arm releases, her eyes kind. “Don’t be a stranger, Derek. You’re always welcome here.”

“Thanks, Allison.” Derek leans in to kiss her cheek, and then the top of Vicky’s head. “I’ll try not to be.”

Derek wakes in the night to Stiles curled around him, one lean arm wrapped across Derek’s chest and their legs tangled together. He’s not sure what woke him at first, but then Stiles shifts restlessly against him, and knees him hard in the soft meat of his thigh.

Derek suppresses a wince, reaching down to gently guide Stiles’ sharp kneecap away from his leg. Stiles’ fingers are twitching and clutching at the sheets and his own skin, and his face is caught in a sharp frown. Presumably he’s dreaming, and not peacefully, so Derek untangles their legs and turns onto his side, pulling Stiles against him and setting up a soothing stroke of his hand over Stiles’ head and down his shoulders and arm. It takes a moment, but Stiles relaxes against him, breathing evening out and fingers clutching at Derek’s sleep-shirt instead of his own palms.

It’s easy like this, thoughtless, the communication of their bodies beneath the covers, the intersection of sleepy instinct and unconscious trust. It’s what Derek has dreamed of softly, quietly, for years. It’s what he longs for when he sees the casual intimacy of Allison with Scott or Isaac, when he sees the gentle devotion between Erica and Boyd. It’s what he remembers from his parents, and he wants it, wants it with an unabashed fervor that seems too much for daylight but feels at home here in the dark, here with Stiles in his arms.

It’s not real, though. He has to remember this. Stiles isn’t here because Derek asked him; he isn’t here because he wants to be with Derek. He’s here because he’s on the outs with his only family, because he needed somewhere to go when he couldn’t go home.

If Derek wants this for real someday (he does, oh, how he does), he can’t settle into it now. He has to fix this, has to figure out how to let Stiles go so that maybe, maybe, Stiles will want to come back.

Derek’s hand slows its rhythm and Stiles murmurs softly in his sleep, pressing his face to Derek’s arm. It’s sweet, and Derek closes his eyes before he chokes on the piece of his heart that seems to be lodged in his throat.

They’re making cookies when Stiles finally spits it out, the late morning sun slanting in through the windows and the smell of ginger and vanilla thick in the air.

“My dad told me not to come home,” he says, using a wooden spoon to stir cookie batter with a violence that belies the casual tone of his voice. “So I’m not going home.”

Derek lets the words fall for a moment, suspended in the warm air of the kitchen. He checks the oven temperature, then pulls out a baking sheet and greases it.

“He told you not to come home?” he asks eventually, voice carefully neutral. “How come?”

“Because he doesn’t want me there, obviously!” Stiles bursts out, thumping the bowl onto the counter. “I told him I wanted to come home after graduation, think about what I want to do next, and he told me not to! He said,” Stiles breaks off for a long, suspiciously damp breath before he continues more calmly. “He said not to bother, that there’s nothing here for me.”

Derek hums thoughtfully, carefully scooping cookie dough in even lumps onto the tray. “So,” he starts, “this was about coming home after graduation?”

“Yeah,” Stiles rubs at his eyes with his sleeves, then resumes beating the batter like it’s personally offended him. “He wants me to go to grad school.”

“ You want to go to grad school,” Derek points out, and Stiles sighs.

“I do,” he admits, and lets Derek take the bowl of batter from his hands, replacing it with a rolling pin and aiming him at a mound of sugar cookie dough. “But I want a break.” Stiles exhales hard, shoving the rolling pin against the pale mound on the counter. “I’m graduating Honors with a double major, two minors, and a certificate, from Cal. It’s been… it’s been a lot. And I don’t know for sure what I want to do next. And I miss being home, I miss seeing everyone, and Scott’s got a kid now that I’ve barely been able to see, and my dad’s getting older, and-”

“Breathe, Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles does, dropping his head and pulling in a deep breath.

“I’d like some time to regroup. Get a job, save some money, figure out which grad program I want to do. Some of them would let me be remote, and only go to campus a couple weeks a semester. But my dad…”

“He’s worried you’ll lose momentum,” Derek says, and Stiles nods.

“I know, but I need a break. He doesn’t get it, he doesn’t see what… I just want to come home .”

“He didn’t mean for you to not come home for the holidays, Stiles,” Derek says gently, taking the rolling pin from Stiles’ hands and setting it aside.

Stiles leans over and thunks his head against Derek’s collarbone, and Derek gives in to the urge to wrap his arms around him. “I know.” Stiles goes quiet, his breathing deceptively even but his heartbeat still fluttering in Derek’s ears. “But I can’t go home. I’m just so angry , and so…”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and smoothes his hand up and down Stiles’ back. “It’s okay, Stiles. You’re always welcome here.”

Stiles shudders against him, hands clutching at the back of Derek’s shirt, and Derek rubs his cheek across the top of Stiles’ head without thinking, reassurance through touch the language he speaks best.

Sourwolf: Hey Lydia, do you have a moment?

Red Baroness: I’ve always got time to listen to drama about you and Stiles

Sourwolf: Technically, it’s only drama about Stiles…

Red Baroness: Oh, I’m sorry, is this not about him staying at your place indefinitely?

Sourwolf: I was thinking of it as more about his fight with his dad…

Red Baroness : So this is about the cause of the drama between you and Stiles, okay. Yes, I’ve got time.

Sourwolf: ...thanks. I think.

Red Baroness: What did they fight about?

Sourwolf: From what Stiles said, it sounds like the sheriff told him that he wants Stiles to go away to grad school immediately after he graduates, but Stiles was planning to come back here for at least a year while he figures out what he wants to do.

Red Baroness: Oh, Derek, honey. You know better than anyone how sensitive Stiles is. His dad told him he wants him to go away? How do you think he’d take that?

Sourwolf: Like way more of a rejection than the sheriff intended. I’m not stupid, I know how much that would hurt him.

Red Baroness: The sheriff probably thought it’d make him angry enough to accept the grad school offers just to be a pill, but he miscalculated.

Sourwolf: Yeah. But it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow, and you know how close they are. I can’t stand to see Stiles muscle through tomorrow all sad-sack without his dad. How do I fix this?

Red Baroness: You’ve tried talking sense into Stiles?

Sourwolf: Of course. It went as well as you’d expect.

Red Baroness: He does have his moments, especially these days. But yeah, okay. You have to talk to the real adult involved in this, then.

Sourwolf: The sheriff? You think he’d listen to me?

Red Baroness: Sure. He’s very good at listening, and he respects you.

Sourwolf: ...sure.

Red Baroness: Don’t sell yourself short, Derek, it’s not a good look.

Sourwolf: Not all of us have the innate sense of our own worth that you were gifted with, Lydia.

Red Baroness: Oh, I’m aware. Nonetheless, the point stands: don’t sell yourself short, especially where Stiles is concerned.

Sourwolf: What do you mean?

Red Baroness: Of all the places he could have gone when he couldn’t go home, he came to you.

Sourwolf: Yeah, I’ve got the best couch and no small children or disruptive work schedules. Of course he came to me.

Red Baroness: Derek.

Red Baroness: You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to say you want things. We all know that you’re head over heels for Stiles; it’s okay. No one thinks any less of you for it, least of all him.

Red Baroness: He’s as crazy for you as you are for him, he always has been.

Sourwolf: Finding me attractive is not the same thing.

Red Baroness: No, it wouldn’t be. But he’s been in love with you for ages, Derek. Fix this for him, and then sort that shit out. You two are getting too old for pining to be cute.

Sourwolf: ...thanks, Lydia.

Red Baroness: Don’t mention it. :)

Derek wakes with Stiles in his arms before dawn, the stars still bright outside his window as Stiles snuffles softly in his sleep and clings to Derek’s side. He takes a long moment to breathe in Stiles’ scent, letting it ease his fear, his worry. Even if he doesn’t get to keep this, he has it right now, and so he lets himself feel it, lets himself sink into the sensation of being wanted, being held, before he eventually forces himself to pull away, carefully extricating himself from Stiles’ grip to dress and head out into the pre-dawn chill.

He finds the sheriff at the diner downtown before his shift. Dawn is only just beginning to lighten the sky with fingers of pink and purple, and the sheriff raises an eyebrow when Derek slides onto the stool next to him at the diner’s long counter.

“Morning, Hale.” The sheriff nods politely, and Derek returns it, pausing as the waitress settles a cup of coffee in front of him.

“Morning,” Derek answers, then pauses. He’s not entirely sure how to go about having this conversation.

“My kid’s not wearing out his welcome at your place already, is he?”

“Never,” Derek says without thinking, then hunches his shoulders at the dry chuckle the sheriff gives in response. He takes a deep breath, concentrating on gentling the grip he has on his coffee cup. It’s rude to snap the handles off mugs you don’t own. “But he should be with you, sir.”

The sheriff sighs, lifting up his hat to run a hand through his hair before replacing it again. “Did he tell you what I said to him, Hale?”

“Yes,” Derek answers honestly, “the paraphrased version. But he’s taking it very hard.”

The sheriff closes his eyes. “I know. I know.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. “But Stiles… you’ll get it if you ever have kids, Derek. Stiles is the best part of my life, and all I want is what’s best for him.”

Derek nods at the sheriff to continue. This much he knows already.

“I want better for him than this. He’s so goddamn smart, he deserves to be out there in the world making a difference, not stuck here in some backwater town because of me.”

“Sir,” Derek says evenly, taking a sip of his coffee. “You’re everything to him.”

The sheriff sighs, fiddling with the fork on his plate. “That’s how it’s supposed to be when they’re little; you’re their whole world. But Stiles is too old for that - I’m his past. He needs to find his future.”

“You’re his home ,” Derek says, catching the sheriff’s eye and holding that. “Don’t take that away from him.”

The sound of the diner fades away as the sheriff holds him in a measuring gaze. “You could be, too, you know. His home.”

Derek’s heart gives a traitorous thump in his chest, but he schools his expression and shakes his head sharply, once.

“Not like this. Not because he’s running away.” He drops his eyes and plays with the edge of his jacket, where the material is starting to fray, then forces himself to look back up, not caring about what may be splashed across his face. “I want Stiles to come to me because he’s coming to me , not because he’s leaving someone else.”

“Goddammit,” the sheriff mutters, and drags a hand across his face. “When’d you grow up so much, Hale?”

It’s a rhetorical question, so Derek bites his tongue, swirls some cream into the coffee in his mug.

“Fine,” the sheriff grumbles after a moment, and Derek tries not to smile. “Fine. Dinner at my place at four, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Derek agrees easily, and downs the rest of his drink. “Pleasure talking with you, sir.”

“Not sure I can say the same,” the sheriff comments dryly, but flaps a hand at him in farewell. “See you tonight, Hale.”

“See you tonight,” Derek says, tossing some cash on the counter for his bill, and tips his head as he goes.

Stiles is still asleep by the time Derek gets back from his chat with the sheriff, so Derek busies himself with wrapping the last few presents and making dough for sticky buns. He’s kind of at loose ends after that, but he feels restless, uncomfortable in his skin and sad the way he always does this time of year, so he goes for a run.

It’s a good choice; the weather is clear and cold, but crisp in his lungs as he runs, first as a human and then as a wolf, bounding tirelessly through the woods of the Preserve before shifting back outside the parking lot to drive home. He climbs the stairs to his apartment on shaking legs, dripping with sweat, and walks straight into the shower.

The heat and steam are refreshing, and by the time he gets out, Stiles has the coffee pot burbling happily away. He hands Derek a cup wordlessly, and Derek takes it, settling at the kitchen island in what he realizes with a bittersweet pang is their new normal, watching as Stiles does something to eggs in a pan at the stove.

Stiles is cheerful enough but quiet, and Derek can see him pulling back as the day goes by. They watch TV and make fun of the characters in the holiday romances; they play a couple rounds of backgammon; but by the time it’s rounding three in the afternoon Stiles’ face is sliding into resigned sadness and Derek’s heart just hurts.

He puts the backgammon set away, pretending not to notice the way Stiles stares past him out the window, and heads to the kitchen. If there’s anything he’s learned from dealing with the pack in general, it’s that sugar heals a multitude of ills.

“Hey,” he says, pressing a mug of hot chocolate into Stiles’ hands a few minutes later. Stiles takes it with a smile that has misery lurking in the corners, but he presses his head against Derek’s side for a moment in gratitude.

“Thanks,” he says eventually, his beautiful eyes caught on Derek’s face, and it feels like the tip of the iceberg of what’s unsaid between them.

“You’re welcome,” Derek replies, instead of I love you, don’t leave .

He lets Stiles finish his hot chocolate, the silence thick but not uncomfortable between them. The lights of the tree glow dimly in the living room of his apartment, the heavy dusk starting to settle in the corners of the room as the sun slides down into the west.

“Come on,” Derek says when the ceramic of his mug has gone cold as well as empty. “Let’s go.”

The pale crescent moon is low over the horizon, the evening star hovering not far from it as Derek drives them into town. Stiles must know where they’re going, but he doesn’t protest, doesn’t say anything at all as they pull up in front of the Stilinski house.

Derek turns off the car and silence falls again, so he opens his door and climbs out, going around to pull Stiles’ door open too, and reach out a hand. Stiles takes it like a lifeline, his long, rough fingers clutching onto Derek’s own with a grasping intensity even as his face is still with concentration.

They climb the steps to the low porch, Stiles’ hand still gripping Derek’s. The door opens before they have a chance to knock, and John Stilinski stands in the doorway, his face tired and open, haloed with the warm light of the hallway.

“Stiles,” he says, and Derek feels Stiles’ grip on his fingers tighten in anticipation or fear, but then the sheriff opens his arms and Stiles’ breath hitches audibly. “Welcome home.”

Stiles doesn’t quite fling himself at his dad like Derek knows he did when he was younger, but he steps forward without a second thought, wrapping himself in his father’s arms as the sheriff rubs at his back and murmurs into his ear.

It’s close, intimate, and all too sharp a reminder of what Derek doesn’t, can’t, have, so he gives them a moment, then clears his throat.

“I’ll just leave you to it,” he starts, and begins to step away, but then Stiles is peeling himself out of his father’s arms, eyes big and earnest as he reaches for Derek’s hand.

He captures it, weaving his fingers between Derek’s like there’s nowhere else they should be, and Derek’s heart hiccups like a traitor in his chest.

“No, Derek,” Stiles says, his face happy and his smile sweet, “stay?”

#softderekhale #stereksanta19 #*fics19 #*gifts19

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